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DISTAFF   AND    SPINDLE 


By  Mary  Ashley  Townsend. 

XARIFFA'S  POEMS. 

i2ino.    Cloth,  ^1.50. 

DOWN  THE  BAYOU,  AND 
OTHER  POEMS, 
izmo.    Cloth,  $1.50. 


Distaff  and 
Spindle 

Sonnets  by 

MaryAshleyTbwnsend 


Philadelphia  <^  London 
J.  D.Lippincott  Company 


COPYRIGHT,    1895, 

BY 

MARY    ASHLEY   TOVVNSEND. 


Printed  by  J.  B.  LippincoU  Company,  Philadelphia,  U.S.A. 


TO 

MY  THREE  DAUGHTERS 

THIS    BOOK, 

WITH    DEVOTED    LOVE, 

IS    INSCRIBED. 


"  '"PHY  spindle  and  thy  distaff  ready  make. 

And  God  will  send  thee  flax."     The  promise  read 
So  fair,  so  beautiful  to  me,  I  said, 
"  Ah,  straightway  forth  my  spindle  I  will  take ; 

My  distaff  shall  its  idleness  forsake  ; 

My  wheel  shall  sing  responsive  to  my  tread. 
And  I  will  spin  so  fine,  so  strong  a  thread 
Fate  shall  not  cut  it,  nor  Time's  forces  break  I" 

Long,  long  I  waited  sitting  in  the  light, — 

Looked  east,  looked  west,  where  day  with  darkness  blends, 
Nor  did  I  once  my  patient  watch  relax 

Till  cried  a  voice,  "  Thou  hast  not  read  aright 
The  written  promise,  for  God  only  sends 
To  him  who,  toiling  bravely,  seeks  the  flax !" 


II 

^OME  up  I    come  out !   and  hear  the  blackbirds  sing, 
Those  poets  of  an  independent  school 
Who  boast  and  banter,  mimic  and  befool, 
And  everywhere  their  saucy  melody  fling, 

With  its  audacious  and  delightful  ring 

Of  lawlessness  and  carelessness  and  cool 
Contempt  for  any  rhythm,  rhyme,  or  rule. 
On  which  their  roystering  roundelays  to  string. 

What  birds  of  happiness  and  health  are  they ! 
Who  ever  knew  a  blackbird  sick  or  sad? 
Hark  to  their  jokes  and  jeers  and  jaunty  calls, 

While  chronically  wretched  all  the  day, 
A  feathered  Jacques,  melancholy  mad, 
The  ring-dove  mourns  upon  the  garden  walls. 


Ill 

T^EAR  Love,  thou  art  the  fine  resihent  steel 
Wrought  from  the  ruder  iron  of  my  days ; 
Thou'rt  mine,  yet  not  mine ;   when  the  armorer  lays 
The  meliorate  metal  'gainst  his  emery-wheel 

And  gives  the  burnished  sword  his  final  seal, 

No  impress  of  the  dull  mine's  rugged  maze 
The  weapon's  splendors,  glittering  with  rays 
Of  running  light  and  pliant  power,  reveal: 

Yet  that  Toledo  blade,  whate'er  its  fame, 

Must  keep  below  the  radiance  of  its  sheen 
Some  semblance  of  the  shape  it  did  resign. 

Some  vestige  of  the  source  from  which  it  came ; 
So,  darling,  come  what  may  our  ways  between. 
Thy  life  must  ever  bear  its  trace  of  mine  I 


IV 

"IXT'ITH  brine  upon  its  breath  the  soft  breeze  floats 
Up  from  the  gulf,  across  the  planted  lands 
Where  rice  crops  ripen  and  the  young  cane  stands, 

Its  soft  susurrus  blending  with  the  notes 

That  pour  from  myriads  of  piping  throats 

Whose  minstrelsy  the  ear  of  night  commands, 
While  move  to  deeper  seas  and  wider  strands 

The  silent  river  and  its  silent  boats. 

From  hedge  and  grove  and  tall,  deep-bosomed  trees 
The  dulcet  wind's  delicious  odors  comb ; 

While  stars  infinituple  over  these 

In  upper  silences  have  made  their  home, 

And  seem  like  multitudes  of  golden  bees 

Swarming  in  some  vast  temple's  concave  dome. 


A    POET'S  soul  has  sung  its  way  to  God; 

Has  loosed  its  luminous  wings  from  earthly  thongs, 
And  soared  to  join  the  imperishable  throngs 
Whose  feet  the  immaculate  valleys  long  have  trod. 

For  him,  the  recompense ;    for  us,  the  rod ; 
And  we  to  whom  regretfulness  belongs 
Crown  our  dead  singer  with  his  own  sweet  songs. 
And  roof  his  grave  with  love's  remembering  sod. 

But  yesterday,  a  beacon  on  the  height ; 

To-day,  a  splendor  that  has  passed  us  by, — 
So,  one  by  one  into  the  morning  light. 

Whilst  yet  late  watchers  gaze  upon  the  sky 
And  wonder  what  the  heavens  prophesy, 
The  shining  stars  pass  silently  from  sight ! 


VI 

T  CANNOT  pray  that  prayer  I     Nay,  not  for  me 

Implore  deliverance  from  sudden  death ; 
What  is  there  in  the  stoppage  of  the  breath 
To  fright  men  so?     Oh,  that  my  fate  may  be 

To  lose  in  one  pulse-beat  mortality; 

To  be  the  fervent  lightning's  sudden  sheath, 
The  point  where  the  tornado  centereth, 
The  spark  extinguished  instantaneously ! 

I  would  not,  anguish-led,  existence  quit, 

Nor  halting  go,  like  some  scared,  whimpering  hound 
With  faltering  steps  toward  the  echoless  verge ; 

Nay !    I  would  fain  with  one  immediate  bound 
The  dark  profound  leap  into',  and  so  merge 
At  once  the  finite  in  the  infinite. 


VII 

"LJOW  cool  the  garden  is !  the  morning  sky 
Along  the  east  a  luminous  promise  prints, 
And  plain  and  peak  take  on  responsive  tints. 
A  wet  branch  strokes  my  hair  as  I  pass  by; 

Across  the  lawns  awakened  peacocks  cry; 

The  scented  winds  of  hiding  pinks  give  hints; 
Across  the  hills  the  earliest  sunbeam  glints, 
And  early  crows  to  planted  cornfields  fly. 

A  full  rose  stares  me  out  of  countenance. 

The  shamefaced  fuchsia  hangs  her  bashful  head; 
A  prankish  blackbird  hops  across  my  path 

With  wings  alert,  and  many  a  furtive  glance, 
Then,  plunging  in  a  dewy  pansy  bed. 
In  gold  and  purple  takes  his  morning  bath. 


VIII 

T  WALKED  among  the  by-ways  of  my  thought, 
And  lo !    three  ghosts  went  ever  on  before 
With  traihng  robes  that  swept  their  footsteps  o'er, 
And  windy  hair  with  minded  odors  fraught. 

Their  shadowy  shapes  seemed  all  of  silence  wrought. 
While  each  of  my  own  self  some  semblance  wore, 
And  one,  with  pitiless  lips,  named  nevermore. 
In  blown  black  mantle  folds  my  heartstrings  caught. 

This  trinity  abideth  with  us  all. 

Ourselves  that  haunt  ourselves,  whate'er  betide. 
With  what  we  were  and  are  and  hope  to  be ; 

Where'er  we  work  their  noiseless  fingers  fall. 

Whene'er  we  rest  they  halt  them  us  beside. 
Three  regnant  forces  of  our  destiny. 


IX 

TF  you  in  all  their  gloriousness  would  see 

The  morning-glories,  come  and  take  my  hand, 
And  I  will  show  you  where  they  drown  the  land 
In  floods  of  color  varied  sumptuously. 

The  hills  and  hollows  home  their  revelry, 

The  umber  brooks  by  joyous  sprays  are  spanned. 
And  dumb,  denying  rocks  transfigured  stand 
Beneath  their  bloomy  prodigality. 

Only  sweet,  simple,  country  blossoms  they ; 

Yet  if  their  grouping  and  their  wealth  of  hue 
Were  lifted,  living,  to  St.  Peter's  dome, 

Such  rare  design,  such  exquisite  array, 

Would  pass  the  fairest  heights  art  ever  knew. 
Eclipse  even  Angelo's  fame  in  famous  Rome  I 


'T^  HERE'S  something  in  this  sweet  October  time, 
When  over  all  things  hangs  a  mellowing  haze, 
When  flies  the  late  bird  in  uncertain  ways, 
And  stridulous  locusts  to  the  tree-tops  climb, 

With  songs  that  have  no  music  and  no  rhyme, — 
Something,  I  know  not  what,  in  these  dear  days, 
A  balmy  peace  upon  my  spirit  lays 
And  sets  my  life  to  harmonies  sublime. 

Perhaps  it  is  that  in  October,  Love, 

When  all  the  ripened  richness  of  the  year 
Was  resting  on  the  land  and  on  the  sea. 

And  Autumn  stars  were  watching  from  above. 
Thy  soul  of  beauty  shone  into  my  sphere 
To  gladden  all  the  after-time  for  me ! 


XI 

\X/'OULD  I  might  keep  thee  ever  from  the  storm 
And  threat  of  storm ;  from  peril  of  the  brink 
And  fall  therefrom ;  shield  thee  from  every  link 
Of  joy  with  joylessness ;  from  all  earth's  swarm 

Of  mockeries,  merciless  and  multiform ; 

Make  from  thy  pathway  every  danger  shrink, 
Give  thy  sweet  lips  but  happy  cups  to  drink. 
My  own  hopes  pledge  to  keep  thine  bright  and  warm. 

Alas !  not  mine  to  share  thy  peace  nor  strife ; 

To  me  'tis  not  vouchsafed  to  give  nor  guard; 
But  all  my  soul  with  love  for  thee  is  rife. 

And  so  my  night  is  beautifully  starred, 

For  it  is  written  on  the  heights  of  life 
Love  is  its  own  exceeding  great  reward! 


XII 

As  by  the  instrument  she  took  her  place, 

The  expectant  people,  breathing  sigh  nor  word. 
Sat  hushed,  while  o'er  the  waiting  ivory  stirred 
Her  supple  hands  with  their  suggestive  grace. 

With  sweet  notes  they  began  to  interlace, 

And  then  with  lofty  strains  their  skill  to  gird, 
Then  loftier  still,  till  all  the  echoes  heard 
Entrancing  harmonies  float  into  space. 

She  paused,  and  gayly  trifled  with  the  keys 
Until  they  laughed  in  wild  delirium. 
Then,  with  rebuking  fingers,  from  their  glees 

She  led  them  one  by  one  till  all  grew  dumb, 
And  music  seemed  to  sink  upon  its  knees, 
A  slave  her  touch  could  quicken  or  benumb. 


XIII 

T    IKE  some  young  bride,  with  tear-drops  on  her  lashes, 
Just  turned  from  where  the  girlhood-path  has  ceased, 
Comes  morning,  all  her  loveliest  charms  increased; 
One  star  like  some  rare  wedding  jewel  flashes 

Above  the  brow  it  brightens  and  abashes, 

And  all  of  earth,  the  greatest  and  the  least, 

Wait  to  receive  Her,  coming  from  the  East, 

Whose  feet  not  yet  have  touched  life's  dust  and  ashes ! 

Exultantly  the  lush  plains  lift  their  voices, 
Melodiously  the  crystal  brook-notes  call 
Back  to  the  mill-wheel's  reawakened  hum, 

While  every  sunbeam  listens  and  rejoices. 
As  harmonies  of  hills,  woods,  waters,  all 
Are  blent  in  one  epithalamium. 


XIV 

'npWAS  but  a  bamboo  hut  with  thatch  of  palm, 
Yet  well  we  knew  it  sheltered  its  full  share 
Of  human  life,  and  courage,  and  despair, 
Through  all  that  night  of  tropic  dew  and  balm ! 

Whilst  sang  the  eternal  stars  their  infinite  psalm 
Above  the  lowly  roof,  we  saw  the  flare 
Of  one  frail  candle  in  the  door-way  there 
Where  watched  the  watchers  humble,  reverent,  calm. 

None  sobbed  nor  spoke,  but  waited  as  to  hear 
A  coming  silence  stop  beside  the  bed. 
And  touch  its  pillow  with  a  sign  devout ; 

At  last,  as  drew  the  moonless  morning  near. 
By  wails  of  women  we  knew  all,  and  said, 
"  They  watch  no  more,  and  lo  !  the  light  is  out." 


XV 

"jV/TOVED  by  invisible  power,  the  clouds  upsoar 

Like  metals  hued  gold,  bronze,  white,  silver-gray, 

And  lift  a  vast  aerial  array 

Of  moisture,  fire,  and  wind  the  hot  hills  o'er : 

The  forests  stir  to  primal  depths  once  more, 
And  vivid  lightnings  flash  about  the  day 
Like  knives  by  Indian  jugglers  thrown  at  play, 
While  near  and  nearer  threatening  thunders  roar. 

Now,  motion,  tumult,  and  a  flooding  rain 

That  blots  the  world  out  for  a  noisy  while. 
Then,  sudden  sunshine  and  the  storm  has  ceased ; 

But  with  the  heights  the  luminous  mists  remain. 

And  'neath  their  haze  the  mountains  stand  and  smile, 
All  veiled  like  beauties  of  the  haremed  East. 


XVI 

T  SOMETIMES  wish  that  I  might  love  thee  less, 
And  yet  that  were  to  wish  the  day  less  fair, 
The  night  less  starry,  all  the  summer  air 
Crossed  with  a  gelid  vein  of  wintriness : 

To  wish  no  winds  my  senses  would  caress 

With  fragrance  of  fresh  lips,  and  blowing  hair. 
And  garments  of  the  breeze  a  tangled  share. 
Life  stripped  of  all  that  sweetens  life's  success  I 

Then  let  me  love !   glad  that  my  heart  has  cried 
From  its  supremest  depths  for  love  again ; 
Cried  from  divinest  dreams  life  ever  stirred : 

To  love  is  best,  albeit  with  love  denied. 

For  love  rewards,  exalts,  even  by  the  pain 
That  proves  it  is  unrecognized,  unheard. 


XVII 

\X7'HENE'ER  the  calm  lids  of  your  eyes  you  lift, 
The  subtlest  definitions  of  each  look 
I  search  as  might  some  scholar  search  a  book 
Who  hopes,  from  countless  pages  of  word-drift. 

One  flawless,  sparkling  jewel  thought  to  sift. 

But  now  your  lingering  glance  my  pulses  shook ; 
Alas !   too  soon  my  features  it  forsook, 
And  lost  forever  seemed  a  longed-for  gift. 

All  lips  declare  you  love  me  save  your  own — 
Oh,  how  a  joy  deferred  resembles  sorrow. 
And  what  a  thorny  blossom  is  Delay ! 

Be  now  thy  voice  with  tender  secrets  sown, 
An  ever-fleeing  prophet  is  To-morrow ; 
Then  if  you  love  me  tell  me.  Love,  to-day. 


XVIII 

(^LEAN-LIPPED,  clean-souled,  and  clean  of  heart,  she  came 
Across  the  world  and  stood  beside  my  hearth. 
And  taught  me  how  the  gladness  of  the  earth 
Gains  newer  grace  and  bears  a  loftier  name 

When  shared  with  sorrow,  suffering,  and  shame. 
She  taught  me  error  is  not  always  sin, 
That  Evil  often  lets  an  Angel  in 
To  write  Forgiveness  by  the  side  of  Blame. 

I  see  her  now, — the  fair  and  fearless  face. 

Her  hopeful  smile,  the  flash  of  lucent  hair, 
Her  simple  gown  the  blue  of  olden  delf, — 

As,  mantled  in  the  beauty  of  her  grace. 

She  sought  out  guilt,  and  anguish,  and  despair, 
And  lived  her  creed — "for  others,  not  for  self" 


XIX 

"P\ECEMBER  bells  are  pealing  in  yon  tower, 

With  glad  tongues  telling  to  the  world  the  glory 
Of  that  sweet,  tender,  and  divinest  story 
Of  Joseph,  Mary,  and  the  strange  sky-flower 

The  wise  men  called  a  star,  and,  hour  by  hour, 
Did  trust  its  guidance  strange  and  transitory. 
Which  led  them  unto  Bethlehem's  gate- way  hoary, — 
Its  humble  manger's  transcendental  dower ! 

Nations  have  come  and  passed  away  since  then, 
And  many  a  star  has  risen  above  the  earth 
The  maze  and  marvel  of  profoundest  sages; 

But  ne'er  has  one  like  that  been  seen  of  men 

Which  rose  and  stood  above  the  Christ-child's  birth, 
And  Christmas  gave  unto  rejoicing  ages. 


XX 

T  MISS  thee  so !  so  much  of  hfe  and  Hght 

Goes  when  thou  goest,  passes  through  the  door 
Which  thou  dost  shut  behind  thee  ;   comes  no  more 
While  thy  dear  presence  blesses  not  my  sight. 

Thy  absence  makes  my  day  a  starless  night. 

Plants  thick  my  path  with  rue  and  hellebore, 
And  leaves  my  heart  robbed,  weary,  sick,  and  sore 
With  loss  thy  touch,  thine  only,  can  requite  I 

Of  what  is  wrought  this  power  that  thralls  us  so. 
Which  off  and  on  our  peace  puts  like  a  glove. 
Lifts  to  the  stars,  or  leaves  us  clods  o'erthrown*? 

Lets  slave  and  tyrant  in  the  same  heart  grow. 
Mad  misers  makes  us  of  another's  love. 
And  madder  spendthrifts  ever  of  our  own? 


XXI 

A    SULLEN  west,  low  clouds  with  peaks  afire, 
Their  dull,  gray  bases  banked  against  a  sky 
Which  fluctuating  half  tints  glorify  ; 
Across  the  swamps  the  dusk  is  stealing  nigher. 

From  down  the  gulf  the  wind  is  rising  higher, 
A  silent  bird  is  flying  slowly  by, 
A  single  star  is  shining  out  on  high. 
And  one  late  sunbeam  stays  with  yonder  spire. 

The  ground  and  grass  take  on  a  gradual  change. 
No  crickets  chirp,  no  nimble  lizards  run. 
Day  sets  its  music  to  the  twilight's  rhyme ; 

While  lowing  cattle  through  the  sedge-grass  range 
And  cross  the  shallow  bayou  one  by  one, 
With  brimming  udders  for  the  milking-time. 


XXII 

'HP WAS  in  the  sonnet  season  of  my  days 

That  every  wing-beat  of  a  passing  thought 
My  happy  heart  to  happier  dreams  up-caught, 
Which  bore  me  past  all  need  of  worldly  praise. 

I  knew  no  tyranny  of  rhythmic  ways ; 

More  poetry,  less  prosody,  was  wrought 
With  all  I  said  or  sung,  attained  or  taught; 
Nor  did  I  dream  of  thorns  in  poet's  bays ! 

I  have  learned  better  now,  so  men  declare ; 

I  own  I  have  learned  more ;  I  know  to-day 
How  'neath  the  singer's  song  the  heart  can  ache, 

And  know  to  yearn  for  when  I  did  not  care 

What  chanced  my  heart,  and  less  what  men  might  say, 
But  sung  my  sonnets  just  for  singing's  sake ! 


XXIII 

A    SCENT  of  guava-blossoms  and  the  smell 
Of  bruised  grass  beneath  the  tamarind-trees; 
The  hurried  humming  of  belated  bees 
With  pollen-laden  thighs ;   far  birds  that  tell 

With  faint,  last  notes  of  night's  approaching  spell, 
While  smoke  of  supper-fires  the  low  sun  sees 
Creep  through  the  roofs  of  palm,  and  on  the  breeze 
Floats  forth  the  message  of  the  evening  bell. 

Our  footsteps  pause,  we  look  toward  the  west. 

And  from  my  heart  throbs  out  one  fervent  prayer: 
Oh,  love !   Oh,  silence  I   ever  to  be  thus ; 

A  silence  full  of  love  and  love  its  best, 

Till  in  our  evening  years  we  two  shall  share 
Together,  side  by  side,  life's  Angelus ! 


XXIV 

Q    NORTHERN  sky,  to  thee  I  turn  my  face! 

Brave  Arctic  sky,  whence  storms  come  wild  and  cold, 
I  love  thee  that  thou  art  so  fierce  and  bold; 

And  thou,  O  South  sky,  with  thy  languid  grace 
And  fervid  heart,  Sappho  of  skies,  I  trace 
Thy  spell  within  my  soul's  remotest  hold; 

While,  Eastern  sky,  thy  fair,  far  dawns  enfold 

One  I  would  cross  the  wide  world  to  embrace  I 
But  when  I  stand  where  yonder  palm-tree  grows. 

And  one  I  watch  for  cometh  from  the  east. 
And  sunset  paints  the  azure  of  the  west; 

While  there  the  moon  her  slim  white  sickle  shows, 
And  comes  the  night-wind  chanting  like  a  priest, 

I  know  then  which  of  all  skies  I  love  best  I 


XXV 

A    LITTLE  while  now  and  the  sun  will  rise, 
So  whispers  leaf  to  leaf  along  the  lanes ; 
Softly  the  sibilations  cross  the  plains, 
And  slowly  opes  the  fair  East  her  gray  eyes. 

She  sends  their  luminous  splendor  up  the  skies 

Which  yet  the  starry  breath  of  midnight  stains, 
While  steal  along  earth's  multifarious  veins 
Joys  fresh  as  primal  joys  of  Paradise. 

The  spider  spreads  her  white  veils  on  the  grass. 
The  opulent  ant  and  beetle  are  astir. 
The  busy  vines  display  their  night-grown  links. 

Young  blossoms  sigh  and  waken  as  I  pass, 
And  in  my  path  a  grave  philosopher, 
An  old  toad,  gravely  sits  and  winks  and  winks. 


XXVI 

npHOU  askest,  Love,  how  dear  thou  art  to  me  I 
A  Hfetime  of  sweet  answers  that  includes, 
And  needs  must  silence  fill  with  speechful  moods. 
Turn  life's  pale  prose  to  radiant  poetry, 

Part  all  the  seals  of  love's  sweet  secrecy 

And  give  it  tongue  to  thrill  all  solitudes; 
Of  language  search  the  unmarred  magnitudes 
For  words  full  charged  enough  to  answer  thee ! 

Thou'rt  that  to  which  my  pride  is  proud  to  bow ; 
That  which  my  much-blest  life  holds  blessedest, 
Of  my  soul's  self  the  dearer  counterpart ; 

Dearest  of  all  things  dear  to  me  art  thou. 

Of  love's  divinest  height  the  supreme  crest, — 
Yet  I  can  never  say  how  dear  thou  art ! 


XXVII 

T  MET  thee  face  to  face  one  bitter  night, 

0  Death  I   beside  the  low  couch  of  a  child : 
Without,  the  world  was  terrible,  and  wild 
With  storm  and  desolation  and  the  blight 

Of  darkness ;   while  within  there  was  the  sight 
Of  thee,  the  ever-dreaded  and  reviled. 

1  shuddered,  but  my  darling  looked  and  smiled 

As  one  who  knew  thee,  then  grew  still  and  white  I 
I,  trembling  there,  beheld  thy  firm  hand  trace 
A  language  on  those  dead,  beloved  lips 
More  eloquent  than  all  their  years  of  breath. 
I  wept,  but  understood !     I  kissed  the  face 

Whose  light  no  future  shadow  could  eclipse. 
And  henceforth  knew  no  dread  of  thee,  O  Death  I 


XXVIII 

A    STRAIN  of  sumptuous  silence  running  through 
Sweet  gamuts  of  suggestion ;   lucent  gloom 
Through  subtile  fragrance  sifted  fills  a  room 
Enriched  by  treasures  of  old  worlds  and  new 

Carved  ivory,  bronzes,  tapestries  a  few, 

In  )^onder  antique  vase  a  rose  in  bloom ; 
Nothing  too  much  of  artist,  sculptor,  loom. 
And  yet  enough  each  higher  sense  to  woo. 

Amid  encompassment  so  faultless,  fair. 

The  heart  unsatisfied  still  waits  to  hear 
An  eager  footstep  iterately  fall; 

A  soft,  descending  rustle  on  the  stair. 

An  opening  door,  a  Presence  drawing  near, — 
Where  all  is  lovely,  loveliest  of  all ! 


XXIX 

Alone,  in  foreign  lands,  I  watched  the  east 
Within  the  darkness  quickening  into  day; 
A  chain  of  grim,  converging  mountains  lay 
On  either  hand,  each  like  some  mighty  beast 

With  head  outstretched,  as  if  its  throat  to  feast 

In  far,  deep  gulfs  of  sky  whence,  swift  and  gray, 
Like  startled  ships,  night's  shadows  sailed  away 
As  widening  rays  of  dawn's  slow  lamp  increased. 

Like  to  some  battled  plain  where  valor  bleeds. 

The  horizon  glowed  one  deep,  ensanguined  hue, 
Through  which  I  saw  a  growing  radiance  shine 

As  shines,  through  death,  the  glory  of  great  deeds; 
Then  slowly  blent  the  crimson  with  the  blue. 
And  one  star  shone  there  like  a  seal  divine. 


XXX 

\X7HAT  if  I  wrote  a  thought  upon  the  sand 
And  traced  therein  of  all  my  Hfe  its  best, — 
Its  dearest  dream,  its  loftiest  behest. 
Its  holiest  grief,  its  bravest  self-command. 

The  truths  toward  which  its  sternest  paths  are  planned, 
The  joy  of  duty  which  its  way  has  blessed. 
The  noblest  hope  which  has  my  soul  caressed, — 
And  then  should  rise  the  waters  o'er  the  land ! 

If  they  washed  out  my  words,  and  I  had  died, 
Would  all  be  lost  of  my  life  here  below, — 
Its  struggles,  loves,  and  laws'?     Would  all  be  spread 

In  infinite  nothingness  more  amplified, 

Naught  else?     Would  no  beloved  one  ever  know, 
Not  even  when  the  sea  gave  up  its  dead? 


XXXI 

/^H,  let  me  love  thee !     Why  wouldst  cheat  my  heart 
Of  its  most  sacred  hope,  its  purest  bliss? 
Why  wouldst  thou  dash  down  dark  despair's  abyss 
A  love  to  thee  and  me  life's  signal  part? 

Thou  shalt  not  bruise  it,  nor  its  trueness  thwart ! 
A  love  of  stature  mighty  as  is  this 
O'ertops  thy  fault,  absolves  it  with  a  kiss; 
In  what  thou  canst  be  pardons  what  thou  art ! 

As  the  still  lichen  on  the  stubborn  stone 
Eats  steadily  into  the  rugged  rock, 
Until  what  ages  could  not  move  at  last, 

By  its  calm  steadfastness,  is  overthrown. 

So  shall  my  strong,  persistent  love  unlock 
At  last  the  gyves  that  hold  thee  to  thy  past! 


XXXII 

'T^IS  scarcely  ours,  this  which  we  call  to-day. 
Ere  it  is  yesterday,  or,  to  our  sorrow, 
Has  flown  into  the  bosom  of  to-morrow; 
And  when,  amidst  to-morrow's  pain  or  play, 

We  cry,  "  Ah,  here  is  that  which  stole  away !" 

It  is  not  there,  for  Time  made  haste  to  borrow 
Its  swiftness  for  his  strong  bow's  ready  arrow. 
And  shot  it  far  ere  one  could  say  him  nay ! 

But  if  'tis  true  that  where  the  far  bird  flies 
All  sounds  resolve  them  into  only  one, 
Which  ever  through  the  purple  zenith  strays, 

Mayhap  somewhere  in  one  blent  future  lies. 
On  spatial  altitudes  below  the  sun, 
Our  lost  to-morrows — yesterdays — to-days ! 


XXXIII 

'T^HERE  was  a  shore  on  which  the  sea  forgot 
A  shell  which  he  had  fondly  wooed  so  long 
With  surging  sigh  and  vibratory  song, 
Repeated  in  love's  passionate  polyglot 

Through  billow-whirl  and  under-ocean  grot, 
Her  life  became  one  echo  of  the  throng 
Of  his  sweet  vows,  and  her  unrighted  wrong 
The  future  music  of  her  desolate  lot. 

What  was  the  shell  to  him  who  from  the  strand 
First  lifted  it, — a  secret  left  unsolved, — 
A  mystic  book  with  one  self-singing  page? 

Or  did  he  hold  in  his  unconscious  hand 

The  prototype  from  which  has  been  evolved 
The  phonograph,  that  marvel  of  our  age? 


XXXIV 

CWEET  as  the  odor  of  crushed  honey-bees 

Caught  homing  from  the  rifled  buckwheat-beds ; 
Sweet  as  the  scent  the  summer  clover  sheds 
When  evening  dew  its  subtlest  fragrance  frees ; 

And  sweet  as  spice-isle  winds  o'er  southern  seas, 

Comes  now  the  breath  of  winter  woods,  that  weds 
The  Holly  to  the  Christmas-time,  and  threads 
Our  lives  with  something  tenderer  than  all  these ! 

The  chime  of  great,  glad  bells  in  lofty  towers. 
The  sound  of  voices  full  of  love  and  mirth, 
The  song  triumphant  which  the  temple  thrills; 

The  chastening  thought,  which  comes  'mid  feasts  and  flowers, 
Of  hapless  homes  ungladdened  on  the  earth, 
And  little  Christmas  stockings  no  one  fills  I 


XXXV 

A  BOVE  the  world  throbs  deep  the  sky  of  noon, — 
All  Sevres  never  matched  its  matchless  blue; 
No  cloud  appears  with  mediative  hue. 
And,  like  a  dome  from  azure  crystal  hewn. 

The  heavens  hang  hot  with  sunshine  of  late  June, 
Which  searches  out  each  hiding  drop  of  dew 
And  slays  the  rose  which,  but  this  morning  new, 
Came  down  the  day  to  meet  to-night's  young  moon. 

I  creep  into  a  shadowy,  bookish  room 

Where  silent  artists,  scholars,  poets  be, 

And,  far  from  noonday's  fret  and  feverish  flame, 

I  revel  in  the  soul-illumined  gloom ; 
Stand  close  to  Dante's  immortality, 
And  in  my  hand  hold  all  of  Shakespeare's  fame ! 


XXXVI 

A    WINTER  sparrow  with  its  summer  song 
Flits  in,  flits  out,  beneath  my  sombre  eaves, 
And  chirping,  flitting  back  and  forth,  she  weaves 
Her  way  of  sweet  contentment  all  day  long; 

Accepts  what  comes,  seeks  out  no  chancing  wrong, 

Pines  not  for  measures  missed  nor  garnered  sheaves, 
Flies  never  far,  sings  never  much,  nor  grieves 
That  skylark  notes  do  not  her  own  throat  throng. 

I  toss  my  half-read  book  upon  its  shelf; 

Something  my  discontented  soul  commands 
To  search  the  greatness  of  God's  little  things; 

From  them  to  learn  a  lesson  for  itself, 
Even  as  a  tiny  sparrow  understands 
The  limits  of  its  songs  and  of  its  wings. 


XXXVII 

T   OVE  has  a  language  into  all  things  thrown, 
The  very  silence  is  its  subtile  tongue, 
The  hollow  blossoms  have  its  secrets  rung. 
Winds  been  its  messengers,  and  planets  shown 

Its  thoughts  the  way  through  labyrinths  unknown ; 
While  fragrance,  that  mute  melody,  has  sung 
Its  magic  eloquence  since  earth  was  young 
In  accents  understood  by  love  alone. 

Ay,  love,  true  love,  is  ever  many-tongued, 

And  love  is  not  blind,  but  is  Argus-eyed, — 
Sees  all,  says  all,  and  understandeth  signs ; 

Unwearied  climbs,  though  it  be  million-runged, 
Hope's  ladder,  and,  a  thousand  times  denied. 
Across  denial  its  reward  divines. 


XXXVIII 

TV/TY  neighbor  likes  the  lowing  of  his  herds; 
To  shut  it  out  I  draw  my  window  down, 
And  read  my  latest  volume  from  the  town; 
My  poem  to  my  neighbor  is  but  words; 

My  neighbor's  feast  to  me  is  whey  and  curds; 
His  hands  applaud  the  tinselled  circus  clown, 
In  Wagner's  genius  I  my  senses  drown, 
And  each  his  life  with  fitting  cincture  girds. 

Thus  neighbored,  yet  so  very  far  asunder. 
Contentedly  we  take  divided  ways; 
Why  should  I  term  his  stature  lack  of  growth? 

He  does  not  ask  my  lightning  for  his  thunder, 
I  do  not  take  my  measure  by  his  praise. 
And  so  the  world  is  wide  enough  for  both. 


XXXIX 

'T'HE  robin  builds  again  in  last  year's  tree, 

And  last  year's  stalk  is  blossoming  this  year's  rose; 
For  Spring's  young  breast  again  the  wild  flower  blows, 
Back  to  the  summer  comes  the  loyal  bee. 

The  moon  returns  unto  the  calling  sea, 

On  waiting  hills  again  the  sunrise  glows, 
And,  from  the  sweet  land  of  the  long  ago's. 
Imperishable  memory  comes  to  me. 

Back  to  my  heart  she  brings  a  by-gone  bliss, 

The  quenchless  light  of  one  long-vanished  hour. 
The  musk  and  myrtle  of  life's  tangled  skein ; 

Words  unforgot, — one  ever-living  kiss. 

Vows  locked  by  silence  in  her  donjon  tower, — 
Love's  measureless  capacity  for  pain ! 


XL 

'T'HE  hand  that  knocks  but  once  at  each  man's  life 
Against  my  neighbor's  swiftly  knocked  last  night; 
When  straightway  went  the  tenant  forth  from  sight, 
And  that  strong  shape  which  yesterday  was  rife 

With  hope  and  pride,  and  love  of  child  and  wife. 
Lay  into  strange  and  frigid  silence  grown, 
Like  some  fair  temple  robbed  and  overthrown. 
Its  altar-lamps  all  broken  in  the  strife. 

The  echoes  wait  in  vain  for  song  or  psalm. 

Or  sob,  or  sigh,  or  voice  of  plaint  or  prayer. 
In  those  abandoned  shrines,  those  aisles  untrod ; 

Yet  something  in  the  deep,  inscrutable  calm. 
An  incontestable  handwriting  there. 
Avouches,  lo  I   this  is  the  house  of  God ! 


XLI 

\\7'HAT  is  it  that,  in  looking  back  on  years 

That  from  our  lives  have  slipped,  we  most  regret? 

Is  it  the  consciousness  that  we  forget 

Sweet  love,  warm  vows,  and  consecrated  tears? 

Is  it  that  in  fulfilment  disappears 

The  joy  we  covet?   is  it  the  bitter  debt 
Our  youth  has  paid  success?   or  is  it  yet 
The  path  that  vanishes, — the  point  that  nears? 

Ah,  none  of  these, — nothing  which  did  exist; 

No  struggle  won,  no  arch  of  triumph  broken. 
Calls  forth  our  bitterest  grief  at  fate's  decree; 

But,  oh,  the  goal  unreached, — dear  lips  unkissed, 

The  friend  unmet, — the  one  word  left  unspoken. 
That  which  has  not  been  and  can  never  be ! 


XLII 

T^HE  cypress  swamp  around  me  wraps  its  spell, 

With  hushing  sounds  in  moss-hung  branches  there, 
Like  congregations  rustling  down  to  prayer. 
While  Solitude,  like  some  unsounded  bell. 

Hangs  full  of  secrets  that  it  cannot  tell, 
And  leafy  litanies  on  the  humid  air 
Intone  themselves,  and  on  the  tree-trunks  bare 
The  scarlet  lichen  writes  her  rubrics  well. 

The  cypress-knees  take  on  them  marvellous  shapes 
Of  pygmy  nuns,  gnomes,  goblins,  witches,  fays, 
The  vigorous  vine  the  withered  gum-tree  drapes. 

Across  the  oozy  ground  the  rabbit  plays. 
The  moccasin  to  jungle  depths  escapes, 
And  through  the  gloom  the  wild  deer  shyly  gaze. 


XLIII 

npHE  summer  leans  upon  the  passing  year, 

Leans  heavily,  and  all  her  steps  are  slow, 

Like  one  who,  going,  lingers,  loath  to  go ; 
The  wan  leaves  flock  about  her,  sallow,  sear, 

Like  ancient  gossips  crowding  round  a  bier; 

The  scythes  no  more  the  scented  meadows  mow, 
The  sluggish  bayous  falter  in  their  flow. 

And  winds  say  "dying"  in  a  whisper  drear. 

Come,  thou  who  with  me  liked  the  summer  well. 
Together  let  us  kiss  her  finger-tips 

And  bind  with  fond  good-byes  her  lifeless  brows ; 
Lay  last  year's  love  across  her  silent  lips 

Above  the  secrets  she  will  never  tell, 
And  on  her  bosom  cross  two  broken  vows ! 


XLIV 

r\  H,  Sorrow,  Sorrow !  give  not  back  to  me 

My  dead,  my  lost  beloved;  from  that  dear  sake 
Surcease  of  calm,  grave-rest,  I  would  not  take ; 
Across  the  heights  and  depths  of  love  I  see 

Where  life  is  sweet,  where  better  not  to  be. 

And  am  content  to  know  the  willows  shake 
Their  silence  over  sleep  they  cannot  break, 
O'er  precious  pulses  quelled  eternally. 

But,  Sorrow,  Sorrow !  oh,  to  me  once  more 

Give  back  the  courage  loving  much  did  bring  I 
Despoiled  of  that  I  cannot  lift  aright 

The  pinions  of  my  life  again  to  soar; 

Even  as  one  feather  stolen  from  its  wing 
Spoils  all  the  gamut  of  an  eagle's  flight. 


XLV 

Am  I  so  selfish  that  I  narrow  all 

This  world's  immensity, — its  boundless  scheme 
Of  sea  and  land,  and  sky,  and  star  and  stream, 
Its  suns  unknown,  its  forces  that  appall, 

Its  labors,  triumphs,  promises  that  call 

The  heedful  soul  to  altitudes  supreme, — 
All  to  the  bounds  of  my  own  petty  dream? 
Am  I  so  vain,  so  shallow,  and  so  small*? 

I  cry  peccavi,  and  I  pray  my  prayer ; 

But,  though  I  gaze  where  star  and  planet  be, 
My  rising  tear-drops  blemish  all  the  blue; 

My  lips  are  bitter  with  the  taste  of  care. 

My  soul  is  chilled  with  wintry  prophecy; 
I  reach  for  roses, — gather  only  rue ! 


XLVI 

LJOW  grows  a  poem  in  a  poet's  heart, — 

From  sudden  light  flashed  on  some  hidden  thought, 
From  knowledge  never  learned  and  never  taught. 
Dear  memories  snatched  from  pleasures  that  depart*? 

From  tears  that  sympathies  unlooked  for  start, 

From  dreams  within  the  net  of  slumber  caught. 
From  joys  within  sweet  waking  moments  wrought. 
From  depths  ungauged  by  science  or  by  art"? 

Do  poems  grow  from  sorrows  that  bereave, 

From  steps  that  stopped  before  they  touched  the  goal. 
From  days  of  luxury,  or  from  nights  of  toil*? 

Ask  how  the  maple  learns  its  tints  to  weave. 
The  wintry  blast  to  sing  its  song  of  dole, 
The  flowers  to  find  their  stature  in  the  soil ! 


XLVII 

''T'lS  night!  like  daisies  planted  on  a  grave 

The  white  stars  bloom  the  dark,  still  city  o'er, — 
So  still  'twould  seem  quick  hearts  beat  here  no  more 
That  ever  suffered,  pitied,  smiled,  forgave ; 

That  lips  of  all  the  loving,  great,  and  brave. 

With  those  which  sinned,  and  shamed  the  shape  they  wore, 
Had  kissed  the  shadow  of  that  ultimate  shore 
Whose  Stygian  sands  no  echo  ever  gave. 

The  wind,  cold,  bleak,  and  wintry  from  the  west. 
Comes  searching  all  the  lonesome  city  streets 
Like  one  who  seeks  a  face  he  cannot  find; 

My  thoughts,  for  one  who  loved  me  first  and  best. 
Seek  all  the  world,  which  all  their  search  defeats, 
Oh,  life  so  wintry,  oh,  love  so  unkind ! 


XLVIII 

'T'O  every  life  there  comes  a  time  supreme ; 

One  day,  one  night,  one  morning,  or  one  noon. 

One  freighted  hour,  one  moment  opportune. 

One  rift  through  which  subUme  fulfilments  gleam ; 

One  time  when  fate  goes  tiding  with  the  stream. 

One  Once  in  balance  'twixt  Too  Late,  Too  Soon, 
And  ready  for  the  passing  instant's  boon 
That  shall  in  favor  tip  the  wavering  beam. 

Ah  I   happy  he  who,  knowing  how  to  wait. 

Knows  also  how  to  watch  and  how  to  stand 
On  life's  broad  deck  alert,  and  at  the  prow. 

To  seize  the  happy  moment  big  with  fate 
From  opportunity's  extended  hand 
When  the  great  clock  of  Destiny  strikes  Now ! 


XLIX 

npHEY  spread  upon  her  pillow  poppy  flowers 

And  whisper  to  the  sick  girl,  "  Sleep,  child,  sleep ;" 
They  give  her  sprays  of  ripened  hops  to  keep, 
And  banish  sunlight  with  its  amber  showers. 

They  set  the  sliding  sands  to  tell  the  hours ; 

Then,  as  on  tiptoe  from  the  room  they  creep, 

Past  all  their  watch  and  ward,  escaping  leap 

Her  thoughts  and  fly  beyond  all  prisoning  powers. 

How  should  they  know,  whose  hearts  have  never  lain 
Down  by  dead  dreams  in  valleys  of  regret. 
What  sorceries  memory  weaves  upon  her  loom? 

O  life !   whatever  be  thy  joy  or  pain, 
'Tis  better  to  remember  than  forget, 
To  gather  rosemary  than  lotus  bloom. 


% 


An  air  of  expectation  all  the  day 

Has  seemed  the  meadows,  streams,  and  woods  to  fill ; 
The  willows  pullulate,  all  seem  athrill 
With 'joys  such  as  in  human  bosoms  play 

When  some  one  dear  to  them  is  on  the  way ; 
A  new,  soft  verdure  steals  to  yon  brown  hill. 
Upon  the  terrace  smiles  a  daffodil. 
And  whispers,  "  Hither  thou  art  hasting.  May ! 

Thy  happy  hands  hold  scarfs  of  rosy  mist. 

Which  round  thy  graceful  shoulders  blow  and  whirl. 
And,  flying  from  pursuing  April  showers, 

Green  garlands  hanging  from  each  rounded  wrist, 
Thou'rt  like  some  beautiful  young  dancing-girl 
At  whose  bewitching  feet  the  world  throws  flowers !" 


LI 

T    ET  us  beware  to  sip  the  cup  of  praise ; 

Below  the  jewelled  brim  that  wins  our  eyes 

An  arch,  intoxicating  poison  lies 

Which  our  best  selves  unto  our  worst  betrays. 
It  cheats  with  dreams,  with  dangerous  pause  delays, 

Holds  up  to  view  the  hope  that  it  denies. 

Steals  from  ambition  strength  to  win  the  prize. 

And  with  a  base  contentment  drugs  our  days. 
Better  to  gnaw  the  bitter  roots  of  blame. 

Conscious  the  bread  we  ask  for  is  a  stone ; 

Better  our  parched  and  thirsting  lips  be  cooled 
By  acrid  trials  filtered  through  some  aim 

Thrust  full  of  noble  effort  overthrown. 

Than  feed  on  flattery  and  be  filled  and  fooled ! 


LII 

A    SUDDEN  curtain  has  dropped  down  between 
My  life  and  me.     I  seem  to  stand  outside 
My  own  existence,  hungering  and  denied 
And  dumb ;   love,  hope,  and  peace  serene, 

Met  in  the  world,  assume  an  altered  mien, 

Or  pass  me  by  in  paths  grown  strangely  wide 

For  meeting,  and  to  loving  unallied. 

And  one  low  mound  for  me  bounds  life's  demesne ! 

Yet  wherefore  deem  thee  dead,  since  thou  dost  speak. 
Since  thou  dost  move  in  all  that  is  my  best, 
In  every  worthy  effort  that  I  make? 

Thou  livest  in  all  for  others  that  I  seek. 

In  each  ennobling  and  fulfilled  behest, — 
And  life  itself  is  lived  for  thy  dear  sake ! 


LIII 

npHE  sea  tells  something,  but  it  tells  not  all 
That  rests  within  its  bosom  broad  and  deep ; 
The  psalming  winds  that  o'er  the  ocean  sweep 

From  compass  point  to  compass  point  may  call, 
Nor  half  their  music  unto  earth  let  fall; 
In  far,  ethereal  spheres  night  knows  to  keep 
Fair  stars  whose  rays  to  mortals  never  creep. 

And  day  uncounted  secrets  holds  in  thrall. 
He  that  is  strong  is  stronger  if  he  wear 
Something  of  self  beyond  all  human  clasp, — 

An  inner  self,  behind  unlifted  folds 

Of  life,  which  men  can  touch  not  nor  lay  bare ; 
Thus  great  in  what  he  gives  the  world  to  grasp, 

Is  greater  still  in  that  which  he  withholds. 


LIV 

\JI7E  live  too  far  from  others  and  too  near 

Ourselves,  and  knit  into  our  scheme  of  days 
Strange  weeds  blown  to  us  from  unworthy  ways ; 
We  tread  the  circuit  of  a  narrow  sphere 

And  call  it  broad,  and,  having  ears  to  hear, 
Unwisely  hearken ;   having  eyes,  we  gaze 
Beyond  truth's  trueness  to  its  paraphrase. 
Past  rough  sincereness  toward  fair  insincere. 

So,  touch  we  hands,  not  hearts, — touch  lips,  not  souls ; 
Give,  and  care  not  what  each  to  each  denies. 
Speak  from  the  verge  of  our  distinctive  spheres. 

Know  and  cross  not  the  gulf  between  that  rolls. 
And,  looking  straight  into  each  other's  eyes. 
See  not  their  anguish  nor  their  unshed  tears ! 


LV 

TF  I  could  paint,  I  would  my  palette  set 
To-day  with  all  the  fairest,  freshest  hues 
That  many-mooded  nature  loves  to  use 

To  tint  the  early  turf  and  violet. 

And  myrtle-buds,  and  mint  and  mignonette, 
And  stems,  leaves,  tendrils  that  the  forests  choose 
As  witching,  beautiful,  bewildering  clues 

To  Spring's  ideal  rose-written  alphabet ! 

A  radiant  sky,  and  yet  of  tender  tone ; 

Lands  all  aflush  with  new  things  gladly  growing. 

The  softened  light  of  early  afternoon ; 

Blown  blossoms  over  country  by-ways  strown, 
A  brook  that  flows,  nor  cares  where  it  is  flowing, 

And  all  these  signs  translated  meaning — June  ! 


LVI 

T'VE  seen  the  fresh  leaves  come  to  yonder  tree 
Like  young  things  to  a  mother  year  by  year, 
Have  seen  them  Hve  their  lives  till,  dull  and  sear, 
Their  purpose  of  existence  seemed  to  be 

To  fade,  and  flutter  uncomplainingly 

To  commonplace  extinction,  their  career 
'Mid  drift  to  end  and  desolation  drear 
Of  wintry  paths  in  dull  obscurity. 

Last  night  a  frost  came,  and  that  tree  to-day 
Is  glorious  in  tints  of  red  and  gold 
Of  which  the  midnight  made  it  sudden  heir. 

So  have  I  known  a  marvellous  gift  to  stay 
Hid  in  some  human  nature  shy  and  cold 
Till  one  unlooked-for  touch  revealed  it  there! 


LVII 

/^OME  forth,  Beloved !  the  hour  has  grown  so  still 
That  I  can  almost  hear  the  violets  blow, 
And  hear  the  sap  stir  in  the  palms  below 
The  lawn,  and,  listening,  seem  to  hear  that  thrill 

The  lily  feels  when,  bending  down  to  fill 

From  urns  of  dusk  her  petals  with  the  slow, 
Sweet-odored  dews  that  out  of  darkness  grow, 
One  ardent  star  comes  trysting  o'er  the  hill ! 

I  believe  that  I  could  hear  if  even  a  thought. 

Or  yearning  glance,  of  thine  this  way  should  pass, 
Or  if  thy  white  soul  beckoned  me  apart; 

Love  has  a  sense  so  delicately  wrought 

That  it  could  hear  thy  shadow  cross  the  grass, 
Or  thy  chill  silence  drifting  toward  my  heart! 


LVIII 

A    TANGLE  of  petunias  and  sweet-peas, 

And  pinks  and  pansies  nodding  in  the  wind, 
A  virgin  in  a  niche  of  stone  enshrined, 
»    Low  whispers  in  the  swaying  pepper-trees; 

A  distant  bell  that  swings  with  cumbrous  ease, 
A  muttering  beggar,  old,  and  bent,  and  blind, 
A  vine  about  a  broken  column  twined, 
And  well-sweeps  creaking  in  the  passing  breeze. 

The  bats,  those  bandits  of  the  twilight  skies, 

Rush  forth  their  frightened  victims  to  pursue, 
While  past  alfalfa-fields  green,  deep,  and  cool, 

With  dusky  face  tinged  by  the  sunset  dyes. 

An  Indian  woman,  dressed  in  red  and  blue, 
Her  donkey  follows  to  the  roadside  pool. 


LIX 

npHAT  I  should  come  and  knock  at  any  door 
And  thou  within,  just  on  the  other  side, 
Yet  answering  not,  though  long  I  here  abide 
And  call  through  tears,  and  with  a  heart  so  sore ! 

I  yearn  to  hear  upon  the  inner  floor 

A  step  that  hastes  to  throw  the  portal  wide 
And  give  the  kiss  that  never  was  denied — 
Oh,  can  it  be  that  these  are  mine  no  more*? 

Yet,  hollow  tomb,  so  cold,  so  dark,  so  murk, 

Thy  gloomy  doors  are  shut  and  barred  in  vain 
On  those  dear  pulses  in  thy  dungeons  stopped ; 

My  hands  from  those  will  lift  their  yielded  work. 

My  strength  will  forge  for  them  the  unfinished  chain, 
My  life  knit  up  the  stitches  they  have  dropped ! 


LX 

npHE  dawn  is  filled  with  earth's  awakenings, — 
A  river's  song  along  the  ferned  ravine, 
The  humming  of  an  insect  host  unseen. 
The  whir  and  whistle  of  invisible  wings. 

A  mood  of  melody  pervades  all  things; 

The  very  clouds  have  music  in  their  mien. 
And  I  can  almost  believe  I  hear  the  green 
Grass  breathe  beneath  my  light  heart  while  it  sings. 

Ah !  unto  those  who  love  her  Nature  shows 
Domains  she  grants  not  to  indifferent  eyes, 
Vast  realms  that  make  kings'  crowns  seem  dowerless; 

Here  leaps  the  quickened  thought, — the  dwarfed  soul  grows, 
Each  sense  unto  some  higher  sense  replies, — 
Yet  this  is  what  men  say  is  idleness ! 


LXI 

/^UT  of  its  heart  the  lowly  blossom  spills 
A  precious  fragrance  at  our  passing  feet, 
In  country  gardens  is  the  bird's  note  sweet, 
And  fair  the  drooping  heads  of  daffodils. 

A  generous  beauty  all  the  valley  fills ; 

But  we,  with  heedless  haste,  rush  on  to  meet 
A  further  joy,  a  music  more  complete. 
Beyond,  beyond,  beyond  upon  the  hills ! 

Oh,  for  the  grace  life's  present  joy  to  see, 

To  meet  half-way  the  heart  that  toward  us  draws, 
To  listen  to  the  lips  that  nearest  speak ; 

To  help  the  hurt  that  is  at  hand,  nor  be 

Like  those  that  ever  fail  to  find  because 
They  seek  too  much,  and  go  too  far  to  seek ! 


LXII 

'/^H,  that  the  weary  days  I  once  blasphemed 

As  thick  with  gloom  could  but  return  to  me, 
Filled  full  with  all  I  then  called  misery, 
By  not  a  ray  of  happiness  redeemed ! 

Oh,  black  to-day !  if  all  which  darkest  streamed 
O'er  that  past  time  but  now  my  lot  could  be. 
It  were  sweet  life,  content,  joy,  ecstasy 
Beside  this  direful  hour  with  anguish  seamed !" 

A  wretched  man  so  muttered  as  he  went. 

Convinced  his  past  the  present  had  betrayed. 
Making  his  griefs,  by  grieving,  more  expand. 

Some  turned  aside  to  shun  his  discontent. 

Some  sneered,  some  fled,  some  heard  him  unafraid, 
While  I  clutched  tight  the  joy  I  had  in  hand ! 


LXIII 

T^HE  pillaging  wind  steals  from  yon  evening  shore, 
Across  the  yellow  river  steals  to  me, — 
Odorous  invisibility 
With  precious  and  impalpable  freight  in  store. 

It  comes  from  vast  plantations  famed  of  yore. 
So  flowered  and  so  fruited,  field  and  tree. 
That  Amalthsea's  horn  for  breeze  and  bee 
Is  there  filled  ever  full  and  running  o'er. 

Below  the  silver  blue  of  upper  skies 

The  sunset's  crimson  mandate  is  unrolled. 
And  lo !  is  wrought  a  miracle  divine ; 

Where  'neath  the  reddened  west  the  river  lies. 
Even  as  at  Cana's  marriage-feast  of  old, 
The  waiting  water  is  turned  into  wine ! 


LXIV 

rJE  was  a  potentate  but  yesterday — 

Coffined  in  precious  wood,  in  raiment  fine, 
Within  a  carven  church,  before  a  shrine, 
Pathetically  calm  he  slept  to-day. 

Touched  by  the  hand  that  none  can  disobey, 
In  frozen  silence,  helplessly  supine. 
He  lay,  and  all  his  past  years  made  no  sign 
Of  powers  used  to  bless  or  to  betray  I 

A  mitred  bishop  benediction  gave; 

The  organ  through  the  vast  cathedral  throbbed. 
And  censers  swung  beside  the  dead  in  state. 

My  hot  tears  fell  for  one  denied  that  nave: 

An  unknown  woman  who,  unheeded,  sobbed 
With  hidden  face  outside  the  church-yard  gate ! 


LXV 

T^HE  contradictions  of  existence  make 

A  curious  study  hard  to  understand. 

Where  is  the  palmist  who  shall  read  the  hand 

Of  humankind  with  falsehood  nor  mistake? 
Its  occult  signs  all  given  laws  forsake, — 

Brief  days,  with  great  deeds  nobly  proved  or  planned ; 

Long  life  all  wasted  twisting  ropes  of  sand ; 

Pure  dreams  that  in  sin's  odious  arms  awake ! 
One  world  which  sits  contented,  stringing  beads, 

And  calls  this  "  work,"  and  deems  the  right  so  won 

To  eat  white  bread,  on  silken  beds  to  sleep. 
One  world  which  sobs  denied  and  cruel  needs, 

Whose  sore  feet  stumble  in  the  race  half  run, 

Whose  bleeding  hands,  too  tired,  can  sow  nor  reap  ! 


LXVI 

''X'lS  true,  one  half  of  woman's  life  is  hope 

And  one  half  resignation.     Between  there  lies 
Anguish  of  broken  dreams, — doubt,  dire  surprise, 
And  then  is  born  the  strength  with  all  to  cope. 

Unconsciously  sublime,  life's  shadowed  slope 

She  braves;   the  knowledge  in  her  patient  eyes 
Of  all  that  love  bestows  and  love  denies, 
As  writ  in  every  woman's  horoscope ! 

She  lives,  her  heart-beats  given  to  others'  needs, 
Her  hands,  to  lift  for  others  on  the  way 
The  burdens  which  their  weariness  forsook. 

She  dies,  an  uncrowned  doer  of  great  deeds. 

Remembered?     Yes,  as  is  for  one  brief  day 
The  rose  one  leaves  in  some  forgotten  book. 


LXVII 

/i    MAN  I  know  whose  visions  all  take  shape 
And  hue  of  doubts,  and  discontents,  and  fears; 
His  chief  enjoyment  is  to  enjoy  his  tears. 
And  even  his  hopes  despair's  grim  features  ape. 

His  wine  is  always  made  of  bitter  grape. 

Misanthropy's  chill  hand  bemoulds  his  years. 
Suspicion's  frost  his  rose  of  friendship  sears, 
His  book  of  life  is  always  bound  in  crape ! 

For  lives  so  narrow,  and  for  eyes  so  blind. 
No  brooks  melodious  make  the  solitudes. 
The  sedulous  moss  carves  not  her  curious  cup; 

Skies  smile  not,  clouds  no  rainy  hair  unbind, 
By  hanging  gardens  of  no  star-world  broods 
The  Niobe  night  whose  tears  morn  gathers  up. 


LXVIII 

npHE  moon  comes  red  like  some  great  bowl  of  blood 

Whose  sanguine  store  uprises  to  the  brim, 
Yet  spills  no  drop  on  the  horizon's  rim ; 
Far  up,  the  mystic  constellations  stud 

The  heavens  where  transpicuous  vapors  scud 
Before  the  upper  winds,  like  phantoms  dim 
Whose  spectral  robes  across  the  azure  skim 
Toward  the  milky-way's  sidereal  flood. 

How  new,  how  old !     'Twas  thus  when  Egypt's  floor 
Of  sand  the  shadow  of  her  Sphinx  first  smote ; 
When  o'er  the  earliest  sea  the  first  ship  flew — 

So  all  we  know,  learn,  live,  has  been  before. 

Oh,  sage  of  old,  wisely  your  slim  reed  wrote, 
"  Under  the  sun  is  nothing  that  is  new !" 


LXIX 

"pjER  face  is  like  the  beauty  of  a  rose 

Which  brightly  blossoms  by  September's  gate, 
When  tender  touches  of  denial  weight 
The  aster's  dream,  the  lily's  white  repose ; 

Her  goodness,  like  the  winter  violet,  grows 

Along  the  paths  which  else  were  desolate; 
Her  voice,  articulate  fragrance,  can  create 
Love  on  the  very  stalk  where  hatred  grows. 

There  dwells  a  happy  spirit  in  her  eyes. 

And  hurts  in  other  hearts  she  lessens  half 
By  courage  which  her  brave  example  teaches. 

She  deems  life  given  not  for  sobs  nor  sighs. 
And  there  is  more  religion  in  her  laugh 
Than  many  a  sermon  that  the  preacher  preaches. 


M191S76 

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6 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

